


Shut Down

by days_of_storm



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 6 feet distance, Corona Virus - Freeform, Friendship, Gen, Isolation, human contact, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:53:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23854129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: I couldn't sleep last night. I had been taking a nap of exhaustion earlier in the day and then I lay awake at 4:30 in the morning and finally had to get up and write this, as it had been floating in my mind for a while. I guess Corona is getting to all of us and for me it's the lack of proper sleep, mostly. That, and not being able to focus very well. I blame any typos etc. in this on the circumstances. And it's not just John who misses human contact. Any of us stuck in isolation on our own go through the same or something similar I guess. So, at least I could make things a bit better for John.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 31





	Shut Down

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't sleep last night. I had been taking a nap of exhaustion earlier in the day and then I lay awake at 4:30 in the morning and finally had to get up and write this, as it had been floating in my mind for a while. I guess Corona is getting to all of us and for me it's the lack of proper sleep, mostly. That, and not being able to focus very well. I blame any typos etc. in this on the circumstances. And it's not just John who misses human contact. Any of us stuck in isolation on our own go through the same or something similar I guess. So, at least I could make things a bit better for John.

John was ready to scream. He shouldered open the door and closed it again by leaning against it, trying not to touch anything with his bare hands. He pushed the keys and his facemask into a waiting plastic bag by the door and stuffed it into his coat pocket. He ignored the mail on the floor beneath the stairs. He would get that later. 

Dropping one bag in front of Mrs Hudson’t door, he dragged the other two upstairs. He knocked with his elbow and waited until Sherlock had opened the door and taken a few steps back. John felt obligated to hold his breath as he passed him and went into the kitchen straight away. The first thing he did after dropping the bags in front of the sink was to wash his hands. Then he took off his coat and carried it back into the corridor, where he left it on the banister. He sprayed it generously with disinfectant. 

Coming back in, he washed his hands again, then began to put away the shopping, washed his hands, put the bags away, and washed his hands again. When he found Sherlock watching him from a safe distance, the urge to scream came back, even more forcefully. 

“I will take a shower,” he announced and did just that. He had started to use the tiny bathroom upstairs to make sure that he would not leave any possible traces of the virus in the one that led into Sherlock’s bedroom. He knew he was being paranoid, but he couldn’t help it. Even the small act of shuffling through their kitchen in his street clothes and before a shower made him feel that he had risked contamination. 

The thought of somehow catching the virus and bringing it home to Sherlock or Mrs Hudson didn’t let him sleep at night. He had finally stopped going to work, closing down the practice and offering telephone sessions instead when necessary. So far, the only calls he had received were by patients who usually came to have some human contact and to have someone to listen to them. It was harder to provide what he considered his side gig, but which he knew was an essential service any doctor provided, through the phone and he hated it. These calls also reminded him just how lonely he was, too. 

Putting on new jeans and a t-shirt, freshly washed socks and his favourite jumper, he finally felt less anxious about having been outside. He knew he had been careful, but people had been standing too close together, whole clusters inside the shops and even in the streets without any discernible reason. John tried to walk around them in wide circles, but sometimes it was impossible. People were everywhere, chatting, laughing, crying, even hugging. He felt terrible being angry at them, but his thoughts kept returning to Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. If anything would happen to them, he would never forgive himself. He was also very clearly and blatantly jealous of their normal human interaction, even though they should know better. He missed people more than he had ever imagined possible.

Sherlock had made tea. He could smell it, even over the pervading smell of disinfectant. Sherlock had cleaned after he had gone to take a shower. 

He sat in his chair, his feet drawn close to his body, sipping on his own tea. His and John’s chairs had been pushed away further to allow them some normalcy. John hated every inch that had been added. Nothing was the same and the fact that he had to go out to buy food, as the delivery services had either stopped entirely or were always booked, John knew he was the only one that should go outside. And the only one presenting danger.

He had forbidden Mrs Hudson to go out to shop, and after he had explained to her how the virus spread and what it did to the human body, she had promised to stay inside. She had since opened a knitting blog which Sherlock had shown John one evening, quite delighted by the thought. John had been strangely touched. 

And Sherlock. To keep Sherlock inside was both very difficult and very easy. John knew there was absolutely no way he could go out. Sherlock had no concept of personal space. He tended to smell people. He licked objects when he thought their taste would help him solve a clue. When he got carried away, he abandoned all precaution and forgot that he wasn’t supposed to take his gloves off and touch the spot that looked like fresh blood on the pavement. John had told him all of that and Sherlock had agreed. Then he had asked Lestrade to send him all the cold cases of the last two decades and he had been steadily solving those, to varying degrees of success. But he had stayed inside and accepted that John was the one to bring in the milk and pasties. 

And he kept his distance to John, just as John had told him to. He washed his hands more often than John had believed he would and he always made sure to disinfect the door handles after John had touched them.

After about three weeks of that, John had started to feel that they were two ghosts, sharing the same flat and bits of conversation, but existing on different planes. Each time, Sherlock wiped a surface after he had touched it, he felt that his presence was wiped away, somehow. He hated it. 

“John?” Sherlock looked at him over his knees. “Come here.”

John stood a presumably safe distance away from him, holding his cup and wanting to smash it to the floor, if only to leave a mark of his existence in the flat. 

“Can I suggest something?”

“Suggest away,” John said, sounding exhausted. He wondered what he looked like to Sherlock. 

“A leap of faith?”

“Hmm?” John was confused. He had expected many things, even the suggestion that John might try some cocaine to get out of his funk, but he had not expected that. 

Sherlock unfolded himself. “You are not well. You miss human contact and affection.”

John wanted to protest out of sheer routine, but Sherlock was absolutely right. Hearing it spoken out loud made his heart bleed. 

Sherlock seemed to take his crestfallen expression as affirmation, as he continued. “I’ll go and sit down on the couch. And I want you to come and sit next to me.”

John’s eyes settled on the couch. They would be too close. Much too close.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice demanded that he looked at him. John did. 

“I can’t stand you being so sad all the time. It’s not right. When you came in, I thought you might break something. And then you didn’t, and that made it worse. And I know you are worried. You have been so worried about us that you have completely neglected your own needs. This is your home, too. And you have been so careful. Statistically, you don’t carry the virus. You might, but this is where the leap of faith comes in.”

John stared at him, feeling his words grate against the walls he had built up around himself during the last three weeks. He felt cracks, too, but was afraid of what would happen when he broke through. 

“So I will go and sit there and I want you to sit next to me.” Sherlock made his way past John, still at an acceptable distance. He sat in the middle of the couch, John felt his breathing speed up. It was just then that he realised just how unwell he was. How anxious he was every minute of every day. And he was not even worried for himself. He was worried for the most rational man he knew, who had just suggested to go against everything John knew was right. 

Even turning towards the couch was hard. And lifting his feet to walk over there and to enter what he felt was an invisible circle around Sherlock was even harder. He held his breath as he sat. Just the warmth of Sherlock’s thigh against his, seeping through their respective clothes, almost made him cry. 

“Good,” Sherlock said, smiling at John. 

John wanted to lean back. Sherlock was much, much too close. Every alarm bell in his body tolled. 

“John,” Sherlock said quietly. “Stop thinking for a moment? Please?”

John leaned forward and put the teacup down onto the coffee table because his hands were shaking so hard he knew he would spill the tea otherwise. When he leaned back, Sherlock caught his hands in his. John looked at him in surprise, and he squeezed them lightly. “Relax, John. Nothing will happen to me.” 

John didn’t know why, but he believed him. Just then, he believed him. He sat back, exhaling slowly, getting used to the feeling of two warm hands around his own. It wasn’t that a lot of people had touched him on a day to day basis before the restrictions were put in place, but he and Sherlock interacted a lot and there were touches. There were shoulder squeezes and pats and excited arm clasps and the very occasional hug. And Sherlock was usually much closer to him than 6 feet. John almost sobbed when he realised what Sherlock was offering just then. 

As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock let go of his hands and opened his arms. John sank against him, feeling Sherlock’s arms close around his shoulders. His chin on his head. He breathed in the warmth of his body, the smell of cotton and aftershave. The solidity of his body felt so foreign and so good that for a good while, John simply marvelled at how quickly he had forgotten what a hug felt like. 

And then Sherlock moved a little, turned further towards him and pulled him closer and John finally thought of reciprocating. He wasn’t the only one starved for touch, even if Sherlock wasn’t affectionate with anyone but Mrs Hudson and very seldomly with him. But just then, as John felt his own chest pressed against Sherlock’s, he knew Sherlock needed this hug as much as he did. 

He tightened the embrace a little, huffing when something in his back cracked. Sherlock exhaled against his shoulder. “Better?” he asked, and John nodded. He did not want to let go, but he also became increasingly aware of how unusual this situation was, even under the current circumstances. 

When he finally pulled back, Sherlock’s face had lost its worry lines. “Thank you,” he said with a small smile. 

“Thank you,” John said, feeling a changed man. 

“Anytime,” Sherlock said and nodded. “Except for right after you come in from outside.”

John chuckled. He had lost the urge to scream and his hands were entirely calm. “Agreed.”

The rest of the day, John felt his mood gradually brighten. Even washing his hands after hanging up his coat properly, dropping the mask into boiling water and cleaning the keys, he did not feel the dark cloud of dread hang over him. When he came back and found that Sherlock had pushed their chairs close together again, he felt elated. 

They spent the evening there, drinking tea and talking about one of the cases Sherlock was currently working on. When they finally decided to call it a night, John stopped Sherlock before he could leave the room. 

“Good night,” he said and pulled him into his arms. “And thank you. I might have gone mad otherwise.”

“It was very distracting,” Sherlock admitted, “I couldn’t concentrate,” but John knew that it wasn’t the only reason.

It was the first night in three weeks that John slept without waking up in the middle of the night, remembering fragments of obscure nightmares. This time, he slept all the way through until his alarm woke him and when he came into the kitchen, finding Sherlock at the fully decked breakfast table with a cup of coffee in his hands, he felt hopeful for the first time in a long time.


End file.
